


tatterdemalion

by trash_rendar



Category: Batman - All Media Types, Batman: Arkham (Video Games), Batman: Arkham - All Media Types
Genre: Body Horror, Gen, Killer Croc-induced injuries, Self-Mutilation, guest appearance from an incredibly niche DC character, in which trash tries to justify scarecrow's AK redesign and make it narratively interesting, post-Asylum pre-Knight, supervillain reinvention
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-20
Updated: 2019-11-20
Packaged: 2021-02-13 15:35:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,451
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21496609
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/trash_rendar/pseuds/trash_rendar
Summary: The Scarecrow is remade.Takes place between Arkham Asylum and Arkham City.
Comments: 1
Kudos: 12





	tatterdemalion

_\-- aquaphobia; the fear of water -- _

Jonathan Crane breaches the fetid waters of Gotham Bay with a desperate gasp. Water spills out of the stitched, mangled mouth of his mask; it tastes of salt, of the sewer, of his own blood.

He sinks back beneath the waves just as quickly.

_\-- apotemnophobia; the fear of dismemberment --_

His leg is useless. Broken, most likely, though he doesn’t dare see for himself. He kicks with the other as hard as he can as he flails uselessly with his arms, trying to force himself back to the surface.

The chemicals which create fear toxin in his gauntlet react to produce luminosity; its pumpkin-orange glow was an intended property, one calculated to induce fear in the victim. Now, it casts an eerie glow around him, filtered through saltwater, far too weak to provide any illumination but strong enough to irritate his eyes.

Intellectually, he knows he is alone in the Bay. Primitively, his brain screams that he is not, that a massive scaly hand is reaching up from behind, ready to fall upon him at any moment and drag him back below – into the deep and the dark and the ravenous, bloodstained teeth waiting there.

_\-- herpetophobia; the fear of reptiles, i.e. snakes, lizards, alligators, crocodiles -- _

At last, a lifeline!

He lunges for the crate, scrabbling onto its top and lifting as much of himself out of the water as he can, never mind how precipitously it may lurch or sink. TITAN, he recalls dimly – Doctor Young’s secret project. Joker’s ace in the hole. It has as much chance of besting the Bat tonight as the Scarecrow had, in the end.

From the island behind, he hears the crashing crack of stone and glass over mad, howling laughter. No one will be thinking to look for him in the chaos no doubt unfolding. Except, perhaps, for Jones.

The swim back to the mainland is long and painful, and Scarecrow minds the water behind him the whole way.  
  


* * *

A man walking along the bank sees him wash up on the shore and rushes to offer aid. Crane jabs his needled fingers into the Good Samaritan’s belly, pumps him full of all the toxin he has left. The screaming pleas to get the roaches out from under his skin soothe the Scarecrow, just barely, as he strips the prone, thrashing form of its car keys. He abandons his victim to his nightmares.

Jack Ryder wheedles at Gotham over the radio, informing the fearful populace of the struggle atop Arkham Mansion and the clown’s eventual downfall. He takes a small amount of pleasure in the failure of Joker’s tactless TITAN scheme, before hissing, the pain in his jaw and leg tightening like a vise.

He needs a doctor - a _medical_ doctor; this much is certain. But legitimate physicians in Gotham were hesitant to offer their services to Crane already, never mind the shuffling, blood-soaked thing he is now. He drives as carefully as he dares to Founders’ Island, just barely making it to the outer edge of the slums before the sedan runs out of fuel. Half-naked, barefoot, and bleeding profusely, Crane must make the rest of the voyage limping through the rain.

Fate finally shows him mercy. The door to the back-alley practitioner is unlocked, and doctor Matthew Thorne is standing at his sink, rinsing off after a fairly routine surgery. Cigarette smoke wreathes his head as he flinches, biting down hard on the filter.

“Oh my god,” he gasps once he catches sight of the ragged shape on his doorstep. “…Scarecrow?”

Crane gurgles as he teeters, collapsing, over the threshold. It’s the first time he’s tried to speak since escaping Arkham.

It’s the only sound he can make.

* * *

To his credit, the Crime Doctor works quickly (or perhaps he only seems to; it’s hard to tell, flitting in and out of consciousness as he is over the next few days), and he is more than competent at his craft. He is able to save not only the eyesight of his patient, but also the jaw.

But Thorne is no miracle worker, and he knows it. This night will extract a heavy toll from Jonathan Crane.

The leg, in particular, will require a brace – perhaps for the rest of the patient’s life. The eyes survive just barely, but will be forever clouded by trauma. The lower facial region, and the vocal cords just below, are another matter; savaged as they are by a blind, brutal swipe from the claws of Croc, Thorne is pushed to the limits of his skill as a surgeon just trying to salvage what he can. What cannot be salvaged, ultimately, must be severed – or replaced.

He tells Crane as much when the Scarecrow finally awakes. It’s his way of softening the blow.

* * *

Days later, Crane stares into the bathroom mirror of the upstairs flat which serves as his hospice, and wonders at how horrific and awful and marvelously _ghoulish_ his face has become.

At first he’d been afraid to look – the Scarecrow, afraid of his own reflection! – the reaction of the milquetoast common man, afraid to witness unpleasantness to spare himself the churning of his stomach. When he finally dared a look, he discovered Thorne’s hyperbole was not overblown. If anything, the sallow complexion his flesh had taken on in recent days only lent it greater credit.

He really _does_ look like a living corpse.

Once the initial revulsion passes, he can hardly be more delighted.

It all seems so _obvious_, in retrospect. The incident in the sewers wasn’t disfiguring him, per se, not as he’d first assumed; it was _refining_ him, the way iron sharpened iron – the way the Bat hardened his criminals. Between claws and scalpels, all the hallmarks of the man that was Jonathan Crane, and all that that slim, finely-featured, hardly-threatening, infuriatingly _human_ visage could have represented had been finally sanded away – not merely hidden, with a mask of burlap or canvas, but completely obliterated. And left in its place is the visceral, stomach-churning face of Fear Itself.

At long last, there is no more Crane. Only Scarecrow.

Except…

He traces the outline of the metal inset in his throat with his fingertips. A voicebox – Wayne Enterprises medical technology. A purloined prototype, capable of perfectly replicating the original voice of the afflicted. It had cost Thorne a pretty penny to acquire. He had probably never thought it would be needed so soon.

It would be easy enough to hide, he thinks. The surgery scars would fade, in time. Beneath the hood of his mask and the hemp noose he pairs with it, it would hardly be noticed.

“Chiroptophobia,” he tries, carefully. “The fear of—”

_No._

This voice would no longer suffice – this soft, wheedly sound, this professor’s plaintive whine. This was not a voice befitting the lipless face to which it had been paired. This was not a voice which inspired _fear_.

Doctor Thorne was kind enough, or merely sloppy, to leave the schematics for the device behind as reading material. He uses them to orient himself as he twists his voice, stretches it, forces it to fit. He twists, too, altering his enunciation and delivery, attuning himself to the most fearsome sound within his limits.

“Chirop—Chiropter—nnngh hhh. C-Chiropterrrr—phobia…”

The process has its own share of pains. But pain is a familiar friend to the Scarecrow. It is, as always, what defines him - shapes him into who he is.

“Chi… Chiii – rop – ter - aah...?”

This is a good sound, he decides; low and husky. He swallows, clears his throat, and tries again.

“Chi – rop – ter – phobia.”

He practices until the sound is rich and dark, with an edge like the blade of a scythe. He maps the outline of his new voice again, with both hands, wonderingly.

“Chiropterphobia; the fear of bats.”

Yes.

_Yes._

Scarecrow limps towards the window. He still favors the healthy leg – the brace is unwieldy, scraping against the floor as he moves around, joints squealing obnoxiously. His only portal to the outside world looks out across the bay, out towards Miagani Island and – far away, almost lost in the fog over the water – the skeleton of Arkham Asylum. Even from here, he can see the overgrown weed curling around its clock tower.

He offers his former prison and his sleepy, fearful city and its dark knight one last glimpse at the shadow of Jonathan Crane. Then he takes up needle and thread and holds a shred of burlap up to the hollow of his ruined cheek.

The Scarecrow would return, yes – more frightening than ever before.

“Fear will tear Gotham City to shreds,” he promises, and pushes the needle through cloth and flesh.

**Author's Note:**

> I enjoyed Arkham Knight but it made certain creative decisions that I don't quite agree with. Namely, the extensive redesign for Scarecrow. But imagining how those changes got justified in-universe was a fun thought exercise, and out of that came this.
> 
> Leave a comment if you enjoyed - they're always appreciated!


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